I'm the Heir of WHAT now? !
by Asviloka
Summary: I wasn't planning to insert myself into a fanfiction. And when it happened, the world I find myself in is only passingly similar to that which I'm used to writing in. I thought if this happened I'd be someone special, but I'm not even that strong, my outside knowledge largely inaccurate. So how long can I survive? Parody/humor but serious-ish storyline HP/AU/Gen [Inactive for now]
1. The Girl Who Lived Again? !

I lay in the semi-dark, unsure of what had happened. I'd fallen asleep in my own bed, well. . . the bed that I used ten months out of the year and might as well be mine by now. And now I was lying in what smelled very much like a vile alley. The worst possible images leapt to my mind. Had I been abducted?

I sucked in a deep breath - regretted it instantly, I could _taste_ the vile stenches in the air - and it made me cough violently. I sat up, and the nearby people (in robes? what city was this? Had I somehow gone to a comic-con and forgotten about it?) gasped and scattered.

Huh. I usually don't have that effect on people. I'm friendly, a bit on the _very sarcastic_ side, but not intimidating. I guess I'm a little on the tall side for a woman, but nothing extreme. And —

I was _definitely_ not me. I know I should have laid off the desserts, but decades of habit is hard to break and they're _so_ good. But I wasn't my normal, somewhat-flabby self. I was. . . _young_ and thin and _strong_. And definitely not in any city I recognized. There was no skyline, for one thing, and the more I looked the more I decided it must be a movie set.

I've never aspired to be an actor, too much work. So where was I? And what had happened to me?

"She's alive?" a voice whispered, sounding terrified.

"Inferius," someone answered back, equally hushed.

"Are we LARPing now?" I asked, getting unsteadily to my feet. "Did I join a LARP group and lose weight without remembering it?"

My _voice_ wasn't mine. It was higher, hoarser. Thin, not deep.

I was beginning to get seriously freaked out.

"Mad witch," someone else whispered. I couldn't avoid noticing that the alley was much emptier now. Only a few people remained, tensed as though ready to flee at any moment.

"Where am I?" I demanded, trying to sound firm, then coughed. That taste in the air was _horrifying,_ and pervasive.

"Knockturne Alley," said an elderly man's voice, only slightly tremulously. "And you are?"

"Revan," I blurted out. I had been working on my KotOR fic the night before, and I certainly wasn't going to give my real name in a strange situation like this. I lowered my voice and gave an evil chuckle. (You'd be surprised how much practice I have at that. Cough, writer, cough.)

"I am Lord Revan. Or, Lady I suppose."

"Lady Raven," someone said in a choked voice, and the three remaining bystanders fled.

"Sure," I said to the empty alley. "Less copyright infringement this way. Lady Raven."

I saw a sign for Bourgin and Burkes' and immediately the words 'Knockturne Alley' fit into their proper context. Harry Potter. I was either in the most elaborate set-up of all time or— oh, goodness. I was in one of those lame self-insert fics?!

No. No, no never, no. I refuse. I won't co-operate, I'm not that kind of person. I'm a serious writer!

I stomped my foot, coughed again on the vile stench of the air, and quickly pushed open the door to the shop. Maybe it would be remotely cleaner in there, and I could think this through properly.

"You're alive?" a grouchy-looking old man said. "Eh, colour me surprised." He didn't sound surprised.

"I'm. . .here. . ." I began, then trailed off, not sure what I was trying to get at. Fortunately he didn't seem to care.

"I see that."

I reached for my money pouch and found it empty. "I guess I don't have any money."

"Of course not. You were lying dead in an alley for the past several hours. Did you really expect to come back with your possessions intact?"

"I'm a dead person now?" I asked, more to myself than the shopkeeper.

"Who did you think you were?"

"Raven. . . Star," I said with only a moment's hesitation. "Lady Raven Star, Heir of Slytherin."

I didn't know what prompted me to add the last. Most self-inserts had ridiculous powers, right? I didn't actually _read_ that kind of story generally, so I couldn't be sure. But I had to be an overpowered Mary-Sue of some description, surely. Why bother else?

I'd half expected the shopkeeper to laugh uproariously, but instead he just grunted.

"Could be. You'll be hard put to defend that claim. There are two heirs already up at Hogwarts, I hear."

"Harry and Voldemort, you mean?" I asked.

"Voldemort wasn't the Heir," the shopkeeper said, somehow conveying irritation without changing his bland inflection. "The heir was some Tom kid who died in the Muggle uprising."

Okay, that did _not_ sound like the Harry Potter universe I knew.

"No," the shopkeeper continued, "the heirs are the Augurey and her husband."

Augurey. So. . . was this the alternate-universe where Voldemort won?

"So, is Voldemort in command?" I asked tentatively.

"Voldemort died years ago." He squinted at me. "You've been in that horcrux a little too long 'Lady Raven Star'."

"I— I. . ." I didn't know how to reply to that, and stopped trying.

The shopkeeper sighed, the first actual emotion he'd exhibited since my arrival. "You need information, fine. Just two conditions: don't tell anyone I helped you, and don't hurt anyone with my mark."

"Your mark?" I asked, beginning to feel ill. "What mark is that?"

"My family mark," he said, showing the back of his left hand. A squiggly circle with some asymmetric bumps on it, and a runic pattern I couldn't hope to translate inside it.

"Alright," I said, not intending to hurt anyone now or in the future. "Tell me everything that happened since 1980."

"Everything? That's a long, long list Lady Raven."

"Highlights, then. And. . . what year _is_ it?"

"Twenty-seventeen."

That didn't fit, then. In twenty-seventeen, Albus and Scorpius wouldn't even have started school yet, and in the alternate-universe it had been their. . . Fourth year? and Voldemort had been alive and well.

"August. . . six, seven?" I asked.

He nodded. "Seven."

"Same date as back home," I mused. "So what happened to me?"

"You dueled the wrong wizard," he replied.

"No, I was just talking to myself. Please, just tell me what's been happening the past thirty-seven years."

And he began to explain.

* * *

 _Author's Note:_

 _Have I lost my mind? Probably. Do I need another fanfiction project? Absolutely not. Do I care? Eh, not much._

 _I've heard about 'author avatar' stories, generally in relation to the term 'Mary Sue' but never actually heard of a Self-Insert (or not in the way I'm using it here) until I started reading the interesting Naruto-fic Dreaming of Sunshine. Which made me immediately want to make friendly mockery of the Harry Potter fandom and its inexplicable tropes._

 _So, look at me, being ridiculous._

 _Good news for those of you who care about my other stories: this is the only part of this I've written and I don't particularly plan on continuing it soon. I guess that's bad news if you just found this and think it's great, but I find myself doubting that outcome. If there's a particularly strong positive reaction, I suppose I might shift its priorities up a bit, but I have no particular plans for this going anywhere fast. It is as much a side-side-side project as a side-side project can be. _

_However, good news for any of you who actually like this silly thing, I may have inadvertently created a whole alternate universe around it, so while its updates won't be_ _frequent_ _they will exist. I expect the next chapter will be somewhere around mid-October, but life or other writing could interfere so don't hold me to that. Likewise, if I am struck with inspiration or something, it may come much sooner._

 _Thanks for reading!_


	2. The Dark Lord is Dead? !

As it turned out, the changes went back _way_ before the death of Harry's parents.

Tom Riddle had been a poor orphan wizard, one of those too entangled in the muggle world who was killed in the 'great revolt' in the late 60s. It had been one of the largest breaks in the decree for secrecy in memory, leading to the deaths of nearly a hundred witches and wizards, most of them students or recent graduates. The series of attacks had happened without warning, planned in such secrecy that the Ministry only found out about them after the fact.

By then, the damage was done. Nearly half the great families fled to America where the nomaj integration policies promised a more balanced coexistence. Britain's wizard populace was reduced drastically, by the deaths and mass exodus, and Hogwarts attendance plummeted to barely a hundred students per year at best.

Only the most extreme families stayed; those who believed in subjugating muggles instead of working with them, and those determined to maintain peaceful balance rather than fleeing and ignoring the issue.

It was into this climate that Lord Voldemort arose, immigrating from France and quickly becoming well-considered among the wealthy pureblood families who remained in Britain. His extreme stance on muggles made him divisive, but he was an incredibly skilled spellwright and quickly proved that, amid the wreckage of a scattered Ministry and uncertain wizarding populace, a hundred determined and united wizards could and would change the world.

The Ministry had its hands full covering up the increasingly violent intrusions of the Death Eaters into Muggle lives. Instead, it fell to light-aligned wizards like the Potters, Longbottom, Bones, and Prewett families to fight his ascent.

It was unclear where my informant's loyalties lay, he spoke so completely blandly, but I suspected that he agreed with Voldemort's agenda more than he let on.

When Voldemort attacked Godric's Hollow on Halloween night 1981 he vanished. The resistance (I noticed no mention of the name 'Order of the Phoenix') spread celebration, proclaimed Harry Potter the Boy-Who-Lived, and the Ministry rounded up the loudest remaining troublemakers with clear relief. They'd been stretched too close to breaking for any comfort.

They seemed content to sweep the whole affair under the rug, only going after those (like Bellatrix) who too dramatically insisted on carrying on in their Lord's absence.

Then, four years later, Voldemort returned. He attacked Harry Potter at his guardians' house, leveled the whole street in the conflict. Residual magic indicated a prolonged and extremely one-sided duel, with accidental protection magic about the only thing Harry used.

However, the results were indisputable. Lord Voldemort fled to Albania, then was discovered dead some months later when his pet snake mauled him in his sleep. The snake was never found, but The Augurey had since placed a reward for its capture. She also offered fame, fortune, family security, and eternal life for the creation of a time-turner or other device allowing her to retrieve her father safely from the past before his death.

"Delphini?" I asked, when he mentioned the Augurey.

"Delphini Voldemort, yes. She's been trying to bring him back since she found out about her heritage her first year at Hogwarts. Without much success."

She wouldn't be waiting too much longer, if my suspicions were correct. Between the promise of a reward and vast changes rippling the timeline away from what I knew in canon, Delphini was almost certainly going to get her hands on an advanced time-turner within a few years.

That set my timeline for figuring what was going on and deciding what to do with myself fairly condensed.

"Can you direct me to Gringotts?" I asked.

"Why do you want to go _there_?"

"I want to see if the fanfiction community is right about them being nice and misunderstood creatures, and if they can help me get rich and powerful enough to do something worthwhile."

The man scoffed. "They aren't and they won't. Goblins are right tricky blighters. You pretend to be the lost heir of Slytherin, even if you can produce official Ministry documentation of it, and they still won't let you in the vault unless you have the key. The _lost_ key, I might add."

"I smell a side-quest!" I declared. This would all go much better if I played along, right? And being terrified out of my wits always brought out my dramatic flair.

"I smell _you_ ," the man retorted blandly. "And you smell like you were lying dead in a gutter for several hours."

"It can't be _that_ bad, compared to outside."

"I'm not comparing it to outside."

"So, any ideas where I can find the Lost Key of Slytherin?"

"No."

"Huh." If this were a video game, I'd go outside and ask the townspeople for help, but I was acutely aware of how utterly helpless I was. A general background of knowledge that wasn't actually accurate wouldn't be much help here for long.

And if being an author-insert character wasn't enough to give me any sort of special powers or abilities. . .

I closed my eyes, tried to connect with the flow of energy that cycled slowly from outside, through me, and back into the air. I imagined the nearby candlestick lifting from its table, floating toward me like levitation in Skyrim. Reached for it, believed in it, coaxed the magic within me to adhere to my will.

I opened my eyes. The candlestick hadn't moved, and I probably looked a complete fool.

No immediate wandless magic, then. I stomped my foot again, getting tired of this nonsense.

"So, goblins aren't useful, no way to claim what _may_ be my inheritance?"

"Oh, if you're actually the heir of anything, you can inquire at the Ministry. They won't be able to grant access to any ancestral Gringotts vaults, but they can certainly arrange for your titles and any land to be passed to you."

I was beginning to worry about my chances of actually being the heir of _anything_ though. If I was an author-insert. . . well, let's just say I'd never been particularly generous with my own characters. If I'd been inserted into a world as if I'd been the one writing it, I wouldn't put it past me to give me nothing at all, and watch me flounder and die uselessly without accomplishing a single plot-relevant thing.

No, it wouldn't be that bad. Surely. And everyone needs to practice writing pointlessly overpowered characters sometime, why couldn't it be now?

I desperately hoped this wouldn't turn out to be an experiment in writing pointlessly _underpowered_ characters, in which case I was doomed.

"Alright, please direct me to the ministry."

"You don't want to ask anything more about the state of the world?" he asked, not sounding interested in the least.

"Yes, I'd love to, but right now my HIGHEST priority is to get a wand and find out if I'm going to be able to survive the next couple days. Can I come back another day?"

Considering that I'd just spent the past hour pestering him about commonly known rumors and history, he'd been astonishingly patient and helpful. I guess the fact that no other customers had come in helped; he could pass the time without losing out on anything.

The man shrugged, which I took for assent. He drew me a map, which went through _Muggle_ London. I'd never been outside the States before, and only visited actual cities a handful of times even there.

"Thank you for your help," I said, not concealing my trepidation well. "Well, here I go."

* * *

 _Author's Notes:_

 _Well, here we are. October, as promised, more of this ridiculous silly crazy weird dumb story of strangeness. Though I must admit, I've grown somewhat attached to the mixed-up AU I've developed for this._

 _I'll be posting chapters frequently over this month, very small chapters as this is a very small project. At the end of October, it'll be going inactive again for several months while I focus on writing new content (November) and editing and posting what I have (December-February) for my longer and more serious projects._


	3. I can get a Real Wand? !

I hurried out of Knockturne Alley and into Diagon proper, feeling much relieved to be out of that place despite the perpetual gloom of the overcast sky.

I stopped at Ollivanders', knocked timidly on the door.

"Come in," someone called, a girl?

I pushed the door open hesitantly and entered, not sure what to expect. The shop was larger than I'd expected, but maybe that's because movies can't capture space particularly well. It wasn't dusty, wasn't humid. It had a pleasantly warm breeze wafting from somewhere above, smelling faintly of lilac and other flowers I couldn't identify.

"My wand was stolen or destroyed," I said, wishing my voice wasn't so _high_. It made me sound even more whiny than usual. "As was my money. Is there any way I can get a new one?"

The girl behind the desk - girl, I say, though she must have been considerably older than I - nodded. "There is an emergency fund for witches and wizards in distress. It's not very common for those losing their wands to seek new ones, surprisingly, so we actually have a few years' worth of funding sitting unclaimed."

She passed me a bundle of papers that I didn't notice her picking up, watching me somewhat disconcertingly with her large pale silvery-grey eyes. "Fill these out, and we'll see what we can do."

I sat at the desk, picked up the quill and tried dipping it in the ink. I had never used anything like it before, and ended up with large black splotches all across the page before I finally started to get the hang of it. It wasn't as easy as it looked.

For 'Name' I put 'Raven Star' although I supposed that couldn't possibly be my actual name. For 'former wand type' I hesitated. My Pottermore one. . . had been 13', ebony, I think, with dragon heartstring. I didn't know anything else, so I wrote that in.

There were many other places where I had to leave it blank, such as 'residence address'. I put 'prep cook' as my occupation, since that's more or less what I did back home.

I handed it to her with much apology for not being able to fill it out more completely. She glanced through the pages, then shrugged.

"Quite honestly, I doubt anyone will ever read it. I'll just send it along with the bill to the Ministry. Now, ebony-dragon is an interesting combination, and I'm not entirely sure it would still be suited to you. We can try, of course, but. . ." She frowned. "I see you've left your specialties blank? Do you not have any spells that you're particularly good at?"

"I. . . don't know." I admitted. "Honestly, I just woke up in the alley, and I don't remember anything. At all. I don't know if I'm even a witch, though I certainly hope I am."

She raised her eyebrows at this. "Then all this information. . .?"

"Is accurate as best I can recall. I may be mistaken." I shrugged. "Can you still help?"

She nodded. "Let's start with a few ebony-dragon wands to see if your affinity is still the same."

It took far longer than I'd expected, and when I finally found a match (Hawthorne, unicorn, 12.7 inches, flexible) it indicated as much only by completely vacating the area of sound. I didn't even realize the effect was a positive one. I handed it back, only to have her wrap it and pass it over to me.

"Hawthorne is a tricky one," the Ollivanders' girl said as she wrote in the details in the paperwork. "It indicates you may have a conflicted nature, or be passing through a period of turmoil."

"Conflict, turmoil, uncertainty. . . sounds about right," I said nervously, laughing a little. "I don't know where I'll go, what I'll eat. I don't remember how to cast spells."

She stopped writing for a moment. "Hawthorne wands are not the most forgiving. Have you considered checking yourself into St. Mungo's?"

"No, I haven't." And I didn't plan to, until I was more familiar with the world. I couldn't afford to place myself in a position where I had no control over my fate. Not yet.

Though, the thought of relaxing in a magical recovery room, letting someone else try to figure out what had happened, not worrying about the fate of anything, did sound quite appealing.

I'm not an active person. I was already missing my computer.

Then again, it was still the same year. I didn't _have_ to stay in the magical world. I could go into Muggle London, find a job, settle down. That sounded like a _great_ idea. This wasn't my problem. Harry or someone important could fix it.

I exited Ollivanders' shop, fully intending to never put my new wand to use, only to find myself surrounded by what were quite clearly well-trained Aurors.

"Raven Star, surrender your wand and come quietly with us. Resistance will be met with appropriate force."

I squeaked in shock, my heart suddenly racing, dropped my wand box and raised my hands. "Don't shoot, please!"

They didn't shoot, but they did _incarcerous_ my wrists and confiscate my new wand before side-along apparating me to what was _clearly_ an interrogation room.

I didn't like where this was going. Not at all.


	4. Why would the Ministry arrest ME? !

"Lady Raven Star."

The voice was gruff, unfamiliar. "Yes?" I asked.

"We have had numerous reports of your supposed _death_ and reanimation. Care to explain?"

"I just woke up in the alley," I said, deciding to stick with the cover story of losing my memory. It would make more sense than admitting that I suspected I'd been sucked into a bad fanfiction. "I don't remember anything before that."

"You realize your story can be verified _quite_ easily with Legilimency?"

I had conveniently forgotten that particular facet of the wizarding world. My heart sped up again and I was glad my hands were tied together under the level of the table, or he would have seen them trembling.

I'm _not_ good at handling stress. At all.

"Of course," I grumbled. "Well, do whatever you have to."

My interrogator hesitated, causing me to look up. He was standing a bit away from the table I sat at, concealed by the lighting arrangements.

"Of course," he said slowly, "you also claimed to be the Heir of Slytherin, if the witnesses are correct."

"I don't know if that's true," I said. "I just said it on a whim."

"Then answer me. _Do you speak the serpent tongue?"_

"I'm not sure, I've never had the chance to try."

He laughed, a surprised sound. "Serpensortia," he said, and a _very large_ snake appeared on the table before me.

Now, I like snakes. I think they're useful and cute, and I've never been shy about picking them up either. But this one was _big_ and it looked right at me, swaying and looking dangerously unfamiliar.

"It's not poisonous, is it?" I asked, trying to scoot the chair away. It, being bolted to the floor, didn't move.

"Not _venomous_ , no."

I knew I'd be berating myself for _that_ slip-up for weeks. And I called myself a writer.

"Uhh. . . hiss, hsssssssss, ssssssshs?" I said, making random hissing noises. The snake didn't respond.

The man in shadows shook his head, stepped forward and sat down opposite me. He peered at me from behind his round glasses.

"Relax, Raven, it won't hurt you and neither will I."

It took me a long moment to connect this scruffy-haired _adult_ (who didn't look much like his movie actor) with the hero of the stories I'd read as a teenager.

"Harry Potter?!" I gasped. "You're— _you're_ the one interrogating me?"

"Interviewing, I prefer to say," he replied. "You're not under arrest or anything, merely. . . a person of interest."

I held up my _incarcerous_ ed hands.

"Oh, that. _Finite_."

The snake, of course, chose that moment to strike. It latched onto my hand, and I screamed. I usually pride myself on not screaming, but I was taken completely off guard and it _hurt_ a _lot_.

 _"Let go!"_ I shrieked at it, and to my surprise it did so, falling placidly into my lap. I stood up, brushing it onto the floor, and took several steps back.

"That thing is _not_ friendly," I said. "What happened to 'it won't hurt you and neither will I'?"

Harry chuckled. "I didn't intend for it to, but things rarely go entirely according to plan. Congratulations, you've proven yourself."

"What?"

"You gave it an order in Parseltongue, and it obeyed. Your claim as an Heir of Slytherin doesn't seem quite so absurdly false as everyone assumed."

"Oh," I said, mildly disappointed in myself. Surely, it wouldn't be so simple as _that_? I'm an Heir of Slytherin, and a Parselmouth, and I meet Harry Potter on my first day here?

"If this really is an author insert, than I worry for my safety," I mumbled to myself. I really, _really_ should just get a job in a Muggle bookshop and never ever think about magic again.

Harry leaned back in his chair, vanished the summoned serpent and motioned me to return to the table.

"So, Raven, you look an awful lot like Mafalda Bulstrode. I didn't really know her well, but there were rumors that she'd fallen in with the wrong sorts and then disappeared a few weeks ago. Our attempts to track her led us to Knockturne Alley, but by the time we arrived she was no longer registering on our tracking spells. And now you show up, right at the same time, with a different name and powers she certainly never displayed."

"Ah," I said, nodding. "She always was a loud-mouth gossip. Smart, though, if she'd ever tried to apply herself."

Harry appeared puzzled. "Do you mind if we take a sample of your magic and perform a heritage test? It's not a particularly pleasant experience, and takes some time to get results, but we're searching for a missing witch and your appearance seems a bit too coincidental."

I flinched instinctively. I didn't like the sound of 'not pleasant experience' and I was still bleeding— no, I wasn't. Though the snake-bite still ached slightly, the injury itself seemed to have vanished along with the snake.

"I really don't do well with discomfort," I said.

"It doesn't _hurt_ , it just will feel strange. If you cooperate, we can have you cleared and back on your way by tomorrow morning. Assuming you aren't lying about who you are, which is appearing less likely."

"Why?"

"Because Mafalda almost certainly doesn't speak parseltongue. Trust me, she would have exploited the gift to an extreme amount in my fifth year. The number of secret conversations she'd have been able to gossip about would have been astronomical. No, she isn't that much of a schemer. As unexpected as it is to find another Heir, we don't tend to be easily discovered."

"Wait, _we_?" I asked. "The Potters aren't proper heirs. You—"

But he _had_ spoken parseltongue, now that I thought about it. It had sounded like English at the time, but it hadn't been.

 _Only two known heirs,_ the man in the shop had said. _The Augurey and her husband._

"Wait. WAIT. Did. . . did you marry _DELPHINI?!_ "


	5. You Married Voldemort's Daughter? !

"We grew up together, fellow Heirs of a failing house," Harry said. "It was only natural that we ended up together. We were from completely different branches of the family, both with some Pure and some Muggle ancestry. Together, we could ensure our line stayed strong."

I frowned, scowled, wasn't sure exactly what my face was doing but it wasn't happy.

"YOU married Voldemort's DAUGHTER?! HOW?!"

Harry's expression grew distant. "I don't judge people based on their parents," he said. "Or their situation in life. How they were raised. And Del's character is nothing like that of her father. Lord Voldemort was a sad, empty person without love. Del is so much more than that."

"And yet, she's got a reward out for resurrecting her father - the man who murdered your parents and tried to kill you as a child?!"

"She misses her father," Harry said. "I completely understand. And if I've learned anything, it's the redeeming power of love. I don't believe she'll ever succeed in bringing him back, but if she does I'm perfectly ready to give him another chance."

"But. . ."

I couldn't. I just couldn't.

I leaned back, trying very hard to relax, stared behind Harry at the ceiling. "I need a nap," I mumbled.

"That can be arranged," he said. "But first, will you allow us to take a sample of your magic? It won't harm you, and you can rest while we perform tests."

"Fine. I want to know what's going on too. I shouldn't be here."

"Where should you be?"

"New York," I said, picking the nearest major city that might be recognizable to a British wizard. "I don't know how I left the US."

"You don't sound very American," Harry said.

"I've always liked British telly," I said, shrugging. "I could use a Japanese accent if it makes you feel better." I also watched a lot of anime.

And besides, assuming I'd taken over the recently-deceased Mafalda, her vocal patterns were sufficient to mask any flaws in my accent. I knew that I'd certainly have sounded _distinctly_ American otherwise.

He frowned. "Then your ancestry probably won't help much, though it does explain how another Heir managed to remain unnoticed for so long. I wouldn't have guessed any Slytherins of note went over there."

"Just do your test thingy and get it over with," I said. "I'm quite tired and afraid to hope this is just a weird dream."

"It isn't."

I nodded. "You're right. If it were a dream, my levitation spell would have _worked_."

Harry squinted at me. "Your levitation spell failed?"

"I didn't have a wand at the time," I explained.

"Do you usually practice wandless magic?"

"I don't know!" I exclaimed. "I don't know anything, remember? I just found myself in an alley, and I'm not home, and I'm not a muggle any more, and I shouldn't have said that, but I'm the Heir of Slytherin now and I guess I can't just get a job in a shop!"

Harry leaned forward, tapped his wand against my forehead. It felt strange, like someone was trying to pull a headache out through my hair, but it didn't really hurt. It did leave a lingering aftersensation of incompleteness, vaguely reminiscent of hunger only in my mind. I stared as a wisp of reddish-purple light drifted like cotton candy at the end of his wand.

"Interesting," he said, then twirled his wand and deposited the magic into a crystal box. "I'll send someone to escort you to a more comfortable apartment where you can await the results of our investigation."

"House arrest in someone else's house?" I asked. I should know better, but I'm always such a babble-mouth. I blame my co-workers. To think I used to be shy and withdrawn. Heh.

"If you wish. I assure you, we're working our fastest to get this cleared up. You'll be free to go shortly, I'm sure."

* * *

"Your results are here," Harry said, transfiguring the rug into a comfortable chair and sitting across from where I relaxed on the sofa. I'd intended to nap, but there were _books_ here and I started reading and couldn't stop despite how tired I'd become.

I reluctantly slid in a bookmark and rolled into a sitting position, the borrowed blanket tangled comfortably around my legs. "Well?"

"It seems you're. . . ah, a complete muggle. But with magic."

"Huh."

"This ancestry goes back to before Merlin, and there isn't a single magical person in your entire family tree."

"Huh."

"However, you are _clearly_ a witch now. You have magic, albeit not particularly strong magic, as well as, inexplicably, an inherited bloodline trait from the Slytherin line."

"Huh."

"You are _not_ Mafalda Bulstrode, by any test we have performed. Your magic considers itself to be that of Raven Star, eldest daughter of Lee and Susan Castle."

Huh. My parents showed as versions of themselves, but I actually came up as the fake name I made up on the spot?

"I'm not married," I said. "Raven Star was a pseudonym to protect my identity. Why would it show up as my official name?"

"Perhaps because you, and by extension your magic, identify more strongly with that name than with your given name? Often, the names we choose for ourselves can be more powerful than those given to us."

Like Lord Voldemort, or The Augurey.

I wasn't sure I liked the company I was in. But it made sense, of a sort.

"Is that why I'm a parseltongue too? Because I believed I could be, and my new magic just went along with it?"

"That makes far more sense than trying to find some bloodline connection to the House of Slytherin."

"So, I'm _not_ an actual Heir?"

"No."

"Then what _am_ I?"

"A muggleborn witch who can talk to snakes, no more no less."

"Not the Heir of some long-lost nobility?"

"No."

"Really?"

He nodded.

"Are you really really sure? I could really use some more money, ancestral lands, long-forgotten magical artefacts. . ."

"As far as we can tell, your relatives have no connection to Magical Britain at all. You're free to go, we're sorry to have bothered you."

"Huh."

* * *

 _Author's Note:_ _Thank you to the anonymous reviewer for pointing out the inconsistency so I could explain it. I appreciate your input. :-)_


	6. What Has Been Going On? !

I exited the ministry, in possession of exactly one wand and the muddy robes I wore. I was also in the middle of Muggle London, had no identification or passport or history. How would I even get a _muggle_ job now? If my family tree was the same as back home, albeit with my magic clinging to a pseudonym, what did that mean for my _life_?

Also, what was up with the vast, sweeping changes that had taken place? I was in some kind of hybrid alternate reality, where Voldemort was dead, yet Delphini went by The Augurey, and had _married Harry Potter_?!

Who was clearly still a horcrux, if the weird glow around his scar was any indication. So Voldemort wasn't _really_ dead, he was just in one of his hibernations.

It was too much. So I sought out the nearest library, signed up for a card with Raven Star as my name, and asked if they had a computer station I could use.

Fortunately, weird alternate-reality or no, it was still August of 2017 and there _was_ internet in London.

First, a few quick searches into recent news related to 'magic' or 'wizards' revealed. . . upcoming movies and TV shows, interviews with celebrities, weird crimes that had nothing to do with actual magic. Video searches turned up all kinds of CGI amateurs making pretend they were wizards in their back yards, a few wanna-be viral ads for various products. . .

I noted with moderate interest that the upcoming movies were completely different. Marvel didn't seem to be coming out with anything, Justice League was a TV tie-in film, and Episode 12.3 was the next Star Wars. Interestingly, the rebooted Doctor Who was a movie series, while Blade Runner had become a hit TV show.

That more than anything convinced me that I was in a truly alternate reality, not just normal reality plus wizards.

I spent almost twenty minutes watching trailers before remembering that I was here to do important research, and reluctantly tabbed back to my more pressing searches.

I was sure there must have been some instances of actual magic caught on video, cell phone photo, etcetera by now, but it seemed that the world was so oversaturated with fakes and hoaxes that the real thing could show up right under their noses and not start anything.

But. . . the man in the shop, he'd said Tom Riddle was killed in the 'muggle uprising' or something to that effect? So they must have found out _something_ about magic, at some point.

I searched farther back, into news archives. I'd never really paid any attention to politics, much less British politics, and recognized none of the names of recent elected officials, but the Brexit had apparently never happened; in fact, the EU was stronger than ever since the US withdrew from almost all its international relations.

Out of curiosity, I looked up the recent US election, only to discover there _hadn't been one_.

Not in decades.

The current president, longest-running holder of the office, was Gellert Grindelwald.

I stood there, stared at the photo on the computer screen a whole minute. Any fantasies of just heading back to the States and trying to live normally were shattered, obliterated, and left in splinters of despair all around me.

I did a search for Albus Dumbledore. He had been a prominent politician, until his untimely death in the late 80s. I searched for Pious Thicknesse, no results of any relevance. Cornelius Fudge, a minor political player in the 70s through 90s, now dead. I couldn't remember any other Ministers of Magic or prominent politicians from the books.

My hands were shaking enough that I had a hard time hitting the right keys, but I kept on searching.

Voldemort. I hit enter.

I snickered when I saw that his official first name was Lord. The pictures looked right. He was younger, and less snake-like in appearance. It looked how I'd imagine if he'd decided three or so horcruxes was enough and stopped there, then promptly gotten his hands on the Philosopher's Stone. Bellatrix was often beside him, his arm tucked around her waist, her head resting on his shoulder.

They were an actual, official couple. Married, according to wikipedia, for eleven years before his death. She'd gone insane without him and been institutionalized for her own protection.

Two children, Delphini and Caelum. There were no details about their lives, apart from a few sentences about their public appearances.

Tom Riddle?

Quite a lot of them, it wasn't an uncommon name, but add the Marvolo in and there were only a handful of results.

He was among the list of unfortunate victims of a mass witch-hunt in the late '60s. Apparently, a large swath of Britain got it in their heads that there were secretly 'evil sorcerers' hiding among them, and set out to put a stop to the madness. Four weeks and eight hundred casualties later, they all decided they'd been wrong and, afterward, could never remember quite what they did or why. The ripples of those actions couldn't be stilled so easily. Memories could be changed, but enough slipped through the oblivators' cracks that the story became fairly infamous. Enough so that it had survived the transition to the internet age without vanishing.

Gellert Grindelwald.

There was a _lot_ on him, most recently news that he would be giving a speech on the power of community to a graduating class in some town in the midwest I'd never heard of.

"Excuse me, Raven, but your turn has expired."

It was the nice librarian who'd helped me get set up, and she had an impatient-looking teenage boy trailing after her, playing on his phone with headphones.

"Can't I stay just a few more minutes?" I pleaded. "This is really important."

"I'm sorry, but I've already given you as much extra time as I can. You've been here nearly an hour, Jarad needs the computer now."

I closed the window, confirmed it to kill all my dozens of research tabs.

"Thank you," I said. "Can I come back tomorrow?"

She nodded. "Of course. The time limits are only to ensure that everyone gets a turn."

I headed for the exit, then stopped. This was a _library_ , I didn't need the _internet_ to learn more about history. And someone as famous as the fifty-year president Grindelwald would surely have at least a few biographies by now.

I headed into the shelves. Though it took longer than I'd anticipated, I did locate a number of biographies. I grabbed three of them and crossed to the nearest empty table to sit and peruse them.

Then I froze. The back image, of a smiling late-middle-age Grindelwald. And words, printed neatly and professionally beneath it.

 _Photographer Credit: Asviloka Grindelwald._

WHAT?!


	7. But I made that name up myself? !

Asviloka was a nonsense name I'd made up to use as my online handle. Searches I'd done back home showed my MyAnimeList, my FanFiction, my DeviantArt, and a few accounts by other random people who'd used the same nonsense word. A translation search had once revealed that in some foreign language - Polish? Danish? Finnish? something weird like that - the phrase 'til asviloka' apparently could be translated 'to apologize'.

That was it. There was no _person_ named Asviloka. Just me and one or two others who used it as our online handle.

And there was no way I could accept this coincidence. Asviloka Grindelwald?

 _This is an Author-Insert. Maybe I'm a Mary-Sue after all. Maybe I'm related to the president? How did I end up here? Was I kidnapped?_

No. Calm down. It had to be coincidence. Complete coincidence.

But. . . it might not be? If my magic had given me the ability to speak _parseltongue_ as well as officially changing my name to _Raven Star_ (a terrible name I regretted already), why shouldn't I have accidentally become Grindelwald's twin sister or something equally horrifying?

No, no. Harry did a check of my family tree, I was listed with my own parents, with my own relatives. Every part of my ancestry that I knew of had checked out. My siblings were even listed, and none was named Gellert.

So. . . what? Was I just completely over-reacting?

No. Author-insert or no, this was a _story_. _Everything_ would be significant. I should probably have written down the name of that bored-looking teen who took my place at the computer, he'll probably end up being a ministry spy or Death Eater assassin or. . .

 _Focus girl!_

(I do not handle pressure well. I can't think straight, I can't formulate new ideas. I just get fixated on one thing, often to the exclusion of many better plans.)

I tried to breathe calmly, but all I could think was that somehow I was either in terrible trouble or in _really horrible_ trouble.

I stood and started pacing, anxiously, suddenly and vividly aware of the absence of a comfortable jingle of keys from my waist. I missed the distinctive sound of my determined stride. I missed my kitchen, my little cubby of an office. I missed my _life_. This storybooking was meant for other people.

But. . . I wasn't me. My too-dark hair was short, very short, barely reaching my shoulders. Wisping uncomfortably into my face. _I_ was too short. And my motions were quick, not heavy. Youthfully fast.

The problem was that it didn't _feel_ like a game or a story. It felt stressful, insane, and way _way_ too far over my head.

I didn't know the first thing about saving the world.

* * *

I spent the next month carefully avoiding anything to do with the U.S. or Grindelwald and tried not to think about it at all.

I practiced basic magic until I no longer failed every levitation spell.

I filled out a lot of forms at the Ministry of Magic until they were able to provide me with sufficient paperwork of my existence to get a normal muggle job.

I spent weeks eating at charity kitchens with homeless people and desperately trying to actually _find_ a job.

It was the weirdest, most stressful, most humiliating period of my life.


	8. Who's been reading my emails? !

I eventually found a job as a dishwasher.

Three weeks of what I would later consider the last blissful normalcy of my life passed in a steady slog of working, barely keeping up with the rent, and sleeping whenever I had the chance.

Yes, the work was unfamiliar. London was not anything I was used to. Not to mention that my job back home hadn't been anywhere near as hectic as this. The kitchens were half the size with twice the number of people, and the hours were shorter but so much more _packed_ with action and desperate motion.

It was exhausting, insane work. But manageable. And, far more importantly, _normal_.

I finally saved up enough to buy a cheap secondhand laptop, but that was enough. It had a mouse, keyboard, and _internet_.

I switched the layout to my preferred dvorak and set about downloading the essentials. It was only after I'd logged into my gmail account that I realized something was very wrong.

I had _logged into my gmail account_. By instinct, since things felt almost normal. Mine. Asviloka. Which I'd registered years ago _in a different reality._

And then I actually looked at my inbox, and I just about lost my mind. It's fairly normal for me to have a few thousand emails built up, I'm not exactly punctual about staying on top of them.

What isn't normal is having a few thousand emails _in the past day_. Fan letters. Hate letters. Pleas for help with various causes.

This wasn't mine. This was. . . _Asviloka's._

But. . . it accepted my password. It had _accepted my password?!_

I checked deviantart, where Asviloka had registered the _day it was released to the public_ , and had been posting frankly unbelievably good artwork regularly ever since. Better than anything I could do. Better than anything I could _dream_ of doing.

Yet my _DA password_ worked; a _different_ password than the gmail one. This couldn't be just a coincidence.

I checked twitter, which I never actually use, to find that Asviloka had millions of followers.

And there was a picture. Of me.

Actual, real-life, before-this-crazy-nonsense-began _me_. Middle-aged; older and not as overweight as I remembered, but the same crooked smile and wavy hair.

Asviloka Grindelwald, First Lady of the United States.

I think I passed out, because the next thing I remember the computer was beeping that I'd been holding down the d and i keys with my nose for too long.

So I _had_ become a ridiculous Mary Sue after all.

But _I_ was on the wrong end of the story.

* * *

 _Author's Note : I'm still on Nanowrimo-hold for all projects, but I was distracted by life and forgot to post these last few chapters of my ItHoWn backlog before November began. I'll be posting one more chapter in the next couple weeks, then this project goes officially back to inactive until the whim to write it strikes me again. _


	9. Why is everyone coming after ME? !

_At least that explains why Star Wars never stopped being made,_ I thought blearily. Magical interference would go a long way toward convincing George Lucas to ignore the prequel-haters and just keep making more movies.

My first impulse was to come up with a new nonsense username to start over online and make a private resolution to never visit the US again. I had a perfectly reasonable life here. I didn't need magic and I didn't need trouble.

But the more I researched into the state of affairs, the more it looked like my evil alternate self was well on the way to conquering the world. The US had been developing and testing 'impossible' weapons, according to foreign satellite footage and the occasional leaked document. They'd stopped importing, stopped exporting, closed the borders, and 'lost their collective mind' if the popular international opinion was anything to go on.

But to someone who knows what they're looking at, to a min-maxer of a munchkin who has read altogether too many fanfictions by those much cleverer than herself, I knew exactly what was happening.

She'd married Grindelwald, saved him from his defeat, and set out on a gradual campaign to take over her home country and gradually acclimatize it to the commonplace use of magic.

I always loved mixing magic and technology. It made me sick to know that _she_ was exploiting everything that I'd ever wanted to be, for _what_ end?

No, I knew what end. She wanted the same thing I did, in the end. She wanted to be in control. And while I long since accepted that I was too lazy to rule anything, much less spend the effort of taking it over, a slightly more driven version? Someone who had things go just a bit differently in their life?

Well. I wouldn't like to think that I _actually_ might have become a maniacal tyrant. I'm much nicer than I usually come across, really. But the evidence was plastered all across the internet.

Asviloka Grindelwald.

Someone knocked at my door, and I looked up from my computer screen with a frown. My landlord? The repair guy? Eh.

"Come in," I called, and the door _exploded_.

I jumped up, clutching the laptop to my chest, and stared. It was Voldemort. _Voldemort?_

"Um, I uh. . ." I stammered, too stunned to even think of going for my wand.

"Lady Raven Star, I assume?" he asked, his voice high and sinister, with a sibilant undertone.

"Uh, yes, that's me," I said, then immediately wondered if I should have denied it. I couldn't get any sort of read on him. He looked considerably less snakey than the movie version back home (and had an actual nose) but his eyes still glowed red and his skin was pale and imprinted with marks like scales.

"It has come to my attention that you know something of Lady Asviloka."

"Really?" I asked.

"Her email account, twitter, and deviantart account were accessed from that computer," he said, leveling a too-long finger at the laptop I still clutched protectively. "How?"

"Er. . . I used to use the name myself," I said, completely befuddled by Voldemort's choice of topic.

"That would not tell you her passwords, both of which you got correct on the first try."

"How do _you_ know?" I asked. "Websites don't tell you how many times someone tried to access it."

He laughed. "Lady Asviloka owns a muggle weapon called Google. It tells her _everything_. Such as the location of that machine you're holding. So, I ask again, how did you access her accounts?"

"I used the same passwords, okay? We must think alike. It was my username, my password. I didn't know someone else was using the same ones."

If I hadn't been so terrified, I would have asked why he was working with her. Why _Voldemort_ was working for Mrs. Grindelwald. Especially considering he was supposed to be _dead_.

I didn't ask. I didn't move, just watched as Lord Voldemort stalked closer.

"I must know the truth," he hissed, raising his wand. " _Legilimens_."

Sharp, bright darkness, splinters of another life sifted in a blur. My choices, my patterns, my entire mundane life.

Then I was lying on the floor, cracked laptop beneath me, panting for breath. When I recovered enough to sit up, the door was repaired and Lord Voldemort was gone.

I didn't go to work. I disabled the laptop's wireless card, packed it and a few basics in a backpack, and fled.

I couldn't apparate. While the books made it seem utterly commonplace, it turned out the vast majority of wizards couldn't do it safely. There was a reason they had tests and regulations and licenses; Harry Potter just happened to hang out with a bunch of people who could do astonishing magic easily.

I didn't have a broom, but I did have enough money left to pick up a prepaid burner phone and call an uber. I felt bad for what I had to do, but was feeling fairly desperate and didn't know what else to do.

I had him drive me to the nearest pizza place. Once the 'trip' was over, I left him a positive feedback, then fried his phone. Before he could protest, I _imperio_ 'd him and set about finding and destroying any GPS-tracking enabled devices in the car. Then I had him drive us in a different direction and just keep going.

We stopped for gas once, finally ended up in some little town in the middle of nowhere. I ordered him to return home and forget about this trip, left him a too-small tip that was all I could afford, and proceeded to feel guilty about it for several days afterward.

I nearly passed out from magical exhaustion; maintaining an imperio for hours on end wasn't difficult in the moment, but the long-term drain was substantial and I wasn't a strong witch. The sudden fatigue when I released the spell sent me staggering to the nearest muggle home in hopes of finding a couch or something to crash on.

* * *

In the end, I took up residence with an older muggle woman who was easily (magically) persuaded that I was her niece.

I helped around the house with chores, fetched things from the grocer, and generally kept as low a profile as I was capable of imagining. I didn't know how the Trace worked or what it actually was, or if the Ministry had ways of detecting magic normally, so I was careful not to use any more than absolutely necessary. Like levitating things out of my way or across the room. . .

Okay, so I wasn't really very careful, I just didn't do anything in public. And I did need the practice. I wasn't a very strong witch - even after months of practice, my spells didn't tend to succeed more than half the time.

I had plenty of excuses. It always made sense in the moment to break my rule, but I must have slipped up a few times too many because it wasn't even a month later that Voldemort showed up in my aunt's kitchen.


	10. Can't I just live in peace? !

I'd had plenty of time to consider just how completely and utterly doomed I was, and the world in general. _Asviloka_ (it still felt strange using that name to refer to someone other than myself) had a huge huge head start on me. She'd been here long enough to have hung around with _Grindelwald_ , so she had years and years and _years_. I guess it's a good thing I'm a generally lazy person without much sense of proper time management, maybe that's why she's still only taken over the U.S.

 _Only_.

Yep, we were doomed.

So, while it was an unwelcome shock when Voldemort strode casually into the kitchen, it wasn't the worst thing I'd imagined in the interim.

I stopped walking abruptly as he appeared in the doorway, which caused the hot tea I was carrying to splash over my hand. I dropped the mug with a shriek, and it shattered on the floor tiles. I jumped back instinctively to escape the hot liquid, then remembered why I'd been startled in the first place and looked up into Voldemort's red eyes.

He watched me quietly, his slightly inhuman face impossible to read, and made no move to advance further.

I reached to my apron pocket for my wand, but he forestalled that effort by flicking his own in a silent _accio_. My traitorous wand slid past my hand and into his.

"I'm not even doing anything!" I snapped, frustration and fear melding into a kind of indignant anger. "Why are you after me?!"

"I confess," Voldemort said slowly, running his hand along my wand - _MY_ wand, "I am not entirely certain myself."

I snorted. "You're not certain?" _I shouldn't be talking like this, I shouldn't be talking like this, get a grip of yourself!_

"You are an enigma. You never attended school. You never applied for an apparation test. You never rented a flat, or bought a wand, or had a single acquaintance. Until August, when you rose from poor dead Mafalda Bulstrode. The Inferius with a soul. Or are you something else entirely, Lady Raven Star?"

I flinched. Somehow, the way he said my 'name' made it sound even more absurd and foolish. I had the momentary urge to tell him that it was just a pseudonym, that my parents hadn't really given me such a ridiculous name, and then I realized I was just standing there panicking and had no idea whatsoever how I ought to react to this situation.

"My impostor put too much effort into finding you, and yet for all I can tell you have never done anything of significance whatsoever."

I blinked. "Wait, what?! Impostor? How many Voldemorts are there?" There was already Nagini, I suspected, who had killed _an_ alternate version of him, but if this Voldemort wasn't the same Voldemort working for Asviloka. . . ?

"There were seven, naturally. Three are safe, secure, hidden. I am the original. Nagini was a mistake, she developed. . . ambitions of her own, and now there are six. I know not where she is now, probably ruling over a small country. The problem for you, and for me, is the second. The impostor, become no more than a weapon for a madman and his wife's games."

"What about your daughter?" I asked. "How could Delphini possibly think you're dead if there are six of you running around?"

"There are only two _running around_ , as Nagini is surely slithering, and the others are secure. What would I want with the Augurey's plots? They mean nothing to me. I am much more concerned with the _Grindelwalds_."

His voice was so flat and cold, I truly believed that he cared nothing for his daughter. I took another step back. "And you don't mind that she married Harry Potter?"

"He's quite well-known, isn't he? Some slayer of evil, is it?" He sounded utterly unconcerned.

"He's famous for defeating _you_ , for being your arch-nemesis."

Voldemort _laughed_. "Me? Be defeated by a five-year-old with accidental protego spells? No, no. That was the impostor. Note that he 'fled' rather than being actually defeated. I do not flee."

Was Voldemort even 'the Dark Lord' any more? If Grindelwald and Asviloka were in the U.S. developing magitech weapons - and I knew myself well enough to be sure that was _exactly_ what they were doing - would that mean Harry's destiny was still even remotely close to canon? But even in this weird alternate reality, Voldemort was brilliant, powerful, uncaring, and terribly terribly dangerous.

"Why are you telling me all this?" Fear skittered in my rapid heartbeat. "I'm nobody, Heir of nothing."

"I have no intention of killing you, Lady Raven Star. I wish to discuss our options."

I giggled, something I never do. It sounded inane and panicked even to myself. " _Our_ options? Why is this happening to me? I just want to live in peace, is that too much to ask?"

I felt faint, my body didn't know what to do with the adrenaline and fear and confusion.

Voldemort sighed very slowly, then turned my wand toward me. "Imperio."  
 _  
_

* * *

 _Author's Notes :_

 _'Nagini' is not the same snake as the canon 'Nagini' but I figure if he liked the name enough to use it once it's likely enough he'd have used it either way._

 _This story is, as always, completely absurd. It has no priority level in my writing plans, is in perpetual hiatus, and will only be updated on the infrequent occasions when I am struck with the desire to be absurd. That said, I do enjoy writing it, and if you enjoy reading it feel free to let me know. Or to ruthlessly critique my shameful mishmash of worldbuilding which, I confess, I've forgotten much of._

 _If I contradict myself, that is probably because it's been nearly a year since I last worked on this story and I really don't recall most of it. In particular, I'm not entirely sure why Voldemort exists after all the ripples Asviloka made with her arrival and Grindelwald? So I may need to examine this nonsensical mess someday. But until then, it remains absurd in the utmost, and most likely less internally consistent than a stack of assorted cardboard boxes.  
_

 _I do have a second chapter nearly ready to follow up this one, so that will probably be posted sometime this month as well._

 _Until next time!_


	11. What shall I do now?

At once, my panic evaporated. My breathing steadied, and I felt my tension dissolve away completely for the first time since this whole disaster had begun. I may as well just be back home in my bed, keyboard on my lap, a quiet soundtrack playlist running for inspiration, eyes closed and imagining the next scene. . .

"What do you know about the Grindelwalds?" The voice echoed through my contentment, calm and commanding.

"Asviloka is me," I said. "A different version, I suppose, but she looks like I'm supposed to only better in every way. She's like if you took me as a base and idealized everything, prettier, stronger, younger, fitter, more magical. And she's not alone, she's good at art, she's probably good at writing though I haven't looked it up. She's everything I could ever have wished I was."

"Are you confunded?"

"No. I'm from a different reality. You were in a book, but you were different. Angry, harsh. You hurt people a lot more. And a lot of other things were different too. There were no family marks, and Harry Potter married Ginny. I think some parts of the timeline are because of Asviloka being here, she saved Grindelwald from being defeated, and I guess she probably killed Dumbledore and anyone else who might have opposed her here, then went back home to take over the U.S."

I couldn't tell whether I saw him raise a hand to silence my babbling, or if it was simply a silent impression. I was quite happy to obey. This was so much easier, so much better. If I had to be mixed up in this nonsense, being able to do so without fear was far preferable. Free will was so overrated, especially in a crisis.

" _Legilimens_ ," he didn't say, but I felt the word echo, or the spell echo, and once again another's mind was slipping inside my own. It was slower this time, subtler and gentler, nothing like the harsh abruptness of Asviloka's Voldemort. Since I had no reason to even consider resisting it felt dreamlike and oddly nonintrusive.

 _Growing up in a world without magic. Playing with my brother, bullying my sister, writing in codes, hiding under the bridge. Years later, riding our bicycles up and down the drive, talking about everything. Talking about Harry Potter, theorizing for the upcoming seventh book._  
 _Getting my job, moving away, missing him. Being out of touch; kids with cell phones, texting each other, how do you even connect with that? Facebook, blah, I don't do social. I retreat, hide with myself and my computer, never moving on, never really properly growing up. Slipping sideways into the job I'd always envied, able to stay forever— no need to actually move on, just stay where it's familiar and safe._  
 _Sitting in bed, writing and wishing. Standing at my art station, trying and failing._  
 _Then a muddy alley, different, a stranger, magical. A new start? And what do I do, I find a place to hide, again, always hiding from obligation, from effort._

"You are completely unimportant, Star," Voldemort concluded quietly, and I didn't need the imperius to tell me it was true. I'd always been unimportant, always just another face to smile and wave and be forgotten the next day. Would anyone even notice I'd vanished to an alternate reality?

"I know," I said, but the knowledge didn't burn in my chest or throat like it normally did. There was no sadness or longing left in me, just calm.

"And yet. . . Asviloka is indeed your own creation, a warped copy of yourself. Your own rogue Nagini, as it were."

"I don't know how that could be," I said. "I wasn't magical before."

"Yet now you are, and now she is, and you are both here." He was silent a long moment, then I felt him slide into my memory again.

 _Harry Potter looking kindly at me from across an interrogation table, across a comfortable apartment._

 _"So my magic made me a parselmouth because I believed I ought to be?"_

 _"Yes."_

"Magic is guided by belief and intention," Voldemort said quietly. "You are a fanciful creature, living more in imagined worlds than the real. So when one of your fictional stories turns out to be true in another reality, your focused intention and desire pulled you across to it."

"That makes sense," I agreed, though part of me whispered that it really didn't.

"But how are there two of you?" he continued, musingly. "And why are you Mafalda Bulstrode, instead of yourself?"

I normally would have asked why he cared, but I was content to listen. Now that I wasn't worried he'd start torturing me any moment, I realized that he had quite a nice voice. High, clear, cold, but _layered_ somehow. It rang with his self-confidence and unshakable conviction, even when speaking of things which required neither.

"Because I hate myself," I offered into the silence, as his questions - though not truly meant for me - resonated over and over in my calmness. "I hate that I don't live up to my potential, I hate that I'm so weak and stupid and ignorant and lazy. I wanted to be better. Wanted it very strongly."

"And magic bent itself to your desire," Voldemort said. "An idealized, powerful, determined, alternate you."

I nodded.

There was a long silence.

"So, what parts of yourself do you not hate?" Voldemort asked. "What flaws have you failed to despise, what weaknesses may remain within this monster you have created?"

"I'm usually nice, even if I am a bit selfish, and I can be generous when I'm not being greedy. I don't mind being lazy nearly as much as distractible, and I don't particularly mind that I'm not neat. I procrastinate. I prefer a few close acquaintances and never know what to do in a group—"

"Enough," Voldemort said quietly. "Your petty concerns are of little use. _Asviloka_ will have grown beyond any of it. Now be silent, I must think."

He would figure this out, and I needn't worry about it. It was no longer my problem. I hadn't noticed the relief of that at first, but now it seemed only natural. Of course it wasn't my problem.

Voldemort could take care of it. He'd fix everything. I might be no help, but that didn't matter either.

I didn't need to worry about anything, perhaps ever again. Everything was going to be fine now that someone competent was in charge.

I stood silently waiting for instruction, utterly and truly at peace for the first time in my life.


	12. Should I care?

Voldemort contemplated for a moment, then turned to me.

"Raven Star. You will cease being a coward, and you will dedicate your life to bringing Asviloka Grindelwald down. You will attempt to do so without harming my impostor self, but if it is necessary to maim or kill him you will do so without hesitation. Acknowledge."

"Yes," I said. "I will bring her down without hurting your diary if possible, but I _will_ bring her down."

"Good. You may recruit anyone you wish in this battle, may rally any assistance you feel necessary. I myself will not be involved directly. She has proven herself capable of older and darker magics than even I know. It would be a foolish risk to involve myself directly, yet she must be stopped. If necessary, you may. . ." Voldemort grimaced,". . .telephone me at the following number should you require advice or help in planning."

He told me the number several times, asking me to repeat it back until we were both satisfied I wouldn't forget it. And he ordered me to remember it as well, to be certain.

"Do not allow this number to fall into anyone else's hands. I would be very displeased should Mrs. Grindelwald obtain my contact information."

"I won't," I promised.

"Then I will have your promise on it. Come with me. Do not resist."

I allowed him to take my hand and disapparate us away, the sensation of being squeezed between reality even more discomforting than I'd always imagined. It certainly took my motionsickness to whole new levels. But Voldemort didn't have time for me to lie on the ground panting and recovering from travel once we apparated into an unfamiliar mansion, so I stood and followed him unsteadily across the elegant entryway and into another room.

"David, I require your assistance," Voldemort commanded.

A large man stood from his desk, at once pale and subservient. "My lord! You're alive, where have you-"

Voldemort raised a hand to silence him, and David seemed to notice me for the first time.

"Who is this?" he asked, then cringed back as Voldemort stared at him. "I'm sorry, my lord. I talk, it's how I deal with uncertainty."

"I am well aware of your weaknesses, David Parkinson. Now come over here and bring your wand. This useless pathetic weakling is about to join us."

David blinked, but brought out his wand and came to stand beside us. Voldemort took my hand, and after instructing me to respond affirmatively to each question he asked, began codifying my new instructions into the unbreakable vow.

I would pursue battle against Asviloka Grindelwald, taking appropriate care for my own survival but not placing undue emphasis upon it. I would not allow Voldemort's secrets, either real or from the book, to fall into any other's possession. I would not lightly disclose our alliance, nor share his contact information with another. I would dedicate myself fully to the goal of bringing down my alternate persona and refrain from cowardice.

There were more specific directions, but that was about the gist of it. Fight, don't hide.

"Peractio Imperio," Voldemort incanted, and I came back to myself. The drifting, floating, peaceful feeling was gone, but I still felt the echoes of his commands - as well as the heavier bindings of the vow I'd taken. The fear he'd removed slammed back into me, taking my breath away.

"I know you are a coward, Raven Star," Voldemort said, "so it is important for you to remember this. I am not a patient man. I understand that it will require time and effort, but you must endeavor not to delay overmuch."

"I won't," I replied. I wouldn't- couldn't- resist his orders. And it would be to my own benefit to deal with Asviloka sooner rather than later. The longer I gave her to prepare the board, the harder it would be to win.

"Do you have a plan?" Voldemort asked.

"I think I should ask Harry Potter to help me. He was the hero of the stories, maybe he still has some kind of destiny."

"Perhaps he does," Voldemort agreed. "David, I require you to assist Miss Star in any way she requires. Remember that she is bound to performing my will, and obey her as you would myself. If you obstruct her mission in any way, it will not go well for you."

Before David Parkinson could even stutter his, "Of course, my lord, it will be as you command," Voldemort had disapparated with a quiet hiss of displaced air.

David and I stared at each other. It was beginning to sink in that my life had just shifted irrevocably. I couldn't hide, couldn't run, couldn't stay out of this any longer. Even if I wanted to more than anything. I had no choice now.

The war against the Grindelwalds had just become mine.

"Alright then," I said, clearing my throat anxiously. "So, you're David Parkinson, right?"

"Yes," the man said, appearing thoroughly disgruntled now that his master was no longer in the room.

"Are you the father of Pansy Parkinson?"

"No, she's my niece." He frowned. "Is this relevant?"

"I'm not familiar with the families in this version of reality. Do you or anyone in your immediate acquaintance hold a position of strength within the Ministry of Magic?"

"My wife is an Unspeakable, but she can't tell even me what they do."

"Good enough," I said. "I just need someone to get me in. I need to speak to your head of law enforcement."

"Harry Potter is not sympathetic to the Dark Lord's cause. Not in the least."

I waved a hand airily, as though I weren't on the verge of a complete meltdown. "Not to worry. I know Harry well enough to believe he'll be willing to aid in this venture."

"Why are we attacking a Dark Lady on another continent to begin with?" David grumbled.

"She wants to conquer the world, and is making considerable strides in her efforts to do so," I explained. "Lord Voldemort rightly fears that she could become a credible and serious threat, given time and space to plot as she would. Thus it is my responsibility - and now yours as well - to put a stop to her plans before they become more than an annoyance."

David's expression became chillier. "I don't know who you think you are, but-"

"I think I'm terrified and stressed beyond mortal bearing," I interrupted. "And I also think that I've taken oaths and been put under a strong obedience spell, so when I say that this is of the highest importance I think you should believe me." I smirked at him. "Or did you forget the part where you're supposed to obey me?"

He scowled. "Just because you're new to this whole organization-"

"Oh, stop it!" I interrupted again. "Weren't you the one who an hour ago didn't even realize your Dark Lord was even alive? Just how low in the organization does that make you, eh? I don't recall Parkinson ever being a particularly influential name, just a common one for cheap purebloods who think they're more important than they are."

"If we must work together," David said with some effort at civility, though his loathing of me was clear, "then perhaps it would be a good idea not to try and antagonize each other."

"I'm very good at antagonizing people," I replied. By now I'd lost any sense or control over my talking, switched into automatic - sarcasm, and antagonizing, came naturally to me and I tended to fall back on them in times of stress. "Perhaps you should put more effort into getting on my good side."

"Not likely," David said, with what could almost pass for politeness. "Now, you want to go to the ministry?"

"Yes. That would be lovely. Let's just head over there, shall we?"

He looked me over. "Don't you know the way yourself? Do you require me to escort you?"

"I can't apparate and I've only arrived in this country recently. So, no, I don't know the way, and yes, an escort would be lovely."

He sighed and offered his hand. "Then I can take us both. Sooner begun, sooner done."

I shouldn't have mentioned apparition. "I don't suppose we could take brooms? Or an uber?"

"No. We are nowhere near the city. It would take most of the day to get there by muggle means." Now it was his turn to smirk. "Why, does the Lady Raven Star not like apparating?"

I still felt faintly unwell from the first teleportation, but necessity must. I took his hand, and we squeezed into nothing and everything, dark and tight, then reappeared outside the utterly mundane entrance to the Ministry of Magic.

I swallowed several times, taking deep breaths so as not to be ill. No better the second time. Apparition was one spell I was rather glad not to be talented at. It would be convenient, but I couldn't imagine willingly going through that every time I wanted to go somewhere.


	13. Do you believe in me?

The Ministry of Magic was not as easy to navigate as I'd always imagined. If I hadn't had David Parkinson to escort me, I'd have been lost in minutes. As it was, we navigated through the atrium to the elevators - the one easy part of the trip - and to the second floor after inquiring after Harry Potter. He was working today, so we didn't have to worry about missing him.

"This place is too big," I complained, as a way of venting stress. I was in this fight now, seriously and irrevocably, and the sheer responsibility of it was almost paralyzing. Where to even start with something so vast? Asviloka Grindelwald had a decades-long head start on me, she had her own personal Voldemort while mine was more a phone consultant, and she practically owned one of the biggest countries in the world. And if I could already think of plenty of ways to exploit the land and populace, then she presumably had already thought of and implemented something even better.

By the time we reached Harry's office, I was fidgety enough to be pacing if we weren't already moving. Having someone else in the lead helped, I'm much better off in a secondary leadership position than being at the top, but David Parkinson was only here to help me. He probably wouldn't be much use in the upcoming war.

 _Me, leading a war? Aaaaaaa..._

I didn't pass out that time, but I did collapse against Harry's wall, breathing very unsteadily for a minute as I tried to get my emotions back under control. I have a hard enough time running a kitchen, how am I supposed to run a war?

Maybe I could turn it over to Harry. Be his helper. Yes. That would make things much more bearable, much less overwhelming.

I drew myself up, trying hard to channel my inner I'm-the-boss-here attitude, and knocked firmly on Harry's door.

"You may enter."

I did so.

Harry was smiling. "Raven, what brings you back here? If you need further assistance with placing yourself, you can apply downstairs. You don't need to come to me personally."

"No," I said. "That's not why I'm here. It has come to my attention that there is a Dark Lady planning to conquer the world. I thought you might be willing to help me bring her down."

"There are always people planning to conquer the world," Harry pointed out, "but few who succeed. None, in fact, that I am aware of."

"Because people like you stop them, obviously."

"People like me?" Harry asked. "If you're talking about the Voldemort thing, I was so young I can barely remember the event. I'm not some Dark-Lord slayer, just got lucky as a kid."

"Have you ever been to the hall of prophecy?" I asked.

Harry frowned and shook his head.

"You should check it. In fact, could we go there now?"

"You can't just traipse into the Department of Mysteries," Harry pointed out.

I waved a hand toward the office door. "David's wife works there, he said. We could talk to her."

"We're getting sidetracked," Harry said. "Regardless of who David or his wife are, why are you coming to me? Is it because I was the first person you really spoke to after your 'revival' thing?"

"No, I talked to the shop guy first. But in. . . there _was_ a prophecy about you. About you being the one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord. And I'm not sure anymore if that was even Voldemort. It might have become Grindelwald, or his _wife_. Given the temporal shifts she's created with her presence."

At this, Harry sat straighter. "Temporal, you say? The Grindelwalds are time-travelers? You're sure of this?"

"Asviloka is, at least," I said. "I don't know about Gellert. As far as I can tell, he's still the age he ought to be. But she caused a lot of changes by going back far enough to save him."

"And you know this how?"

"From my alternate reality that I was snatched from unsuspectingly."

Harry leaned back. "Yes, that. And how accurate can we assume that information is?"

I pointed to his forehead. "I bet I can predict when your scar will hurt. Whenever Voldemort is particularly emotional. Which isn't often, him being a well-controlled and less maniacal person in this version of events. But. . ."

I pulled out my phone - another burner, which I would switch out soon - and called Voldemort's number.

Part of me flinched at this blatant and dangerous line of action. Putting myself squarely between Harry Potter and Lord Voldemort seemed a very very bad place to position myself. But it wasn't my doing in the first place, I'm just trying to survive with what I have to work with.

"Miss Star." He answered after only two rings. "What is so important-"

"I need you to become angry or happy to an extreme level."

Harry frowned at me.

Voldemort laughed at me. "What possible purpose-"

"Harry won't believe that I'm from an alternate past, and that my information about the Grindelwalds is correct, so I'm proving that I know about the fact that he's your horcrux as evidence that our realities align at least in essentials."

Voldomort laughed again, more coldly this time. "Very well, Miss Star. I will become angry. Do you care to designate a target? Or are you volunteering yourself?"

"N-no," I said hastily. "How about Nagini? She seems a safe target for a bit of rage."

"Indeed. The fact that she abandoned me for her own ambitions is perhaps a failing of my own character, but it also means that I put trust in the wrong being."

His voice grew progressively colder and I glanced at Harry to see if there was any reaction.

For a moment he frowned at me, then let out a stifled cry. His hand flew to his forehead seemingly without conscious thought and he went very still.

Voldemort's cold voice continued in my phone, though less clearly as though he'd moved away.

"I am not the sort to forgive such offence, even when committed by a part of myself. If she ever dares cross my path again, I will remind her who is the master."

Voldemort chuckled darkly, then ended the call.

Harry shuddered. "I see," he said, his expression turning grim. "This is unexpected."

"So do you believe I know things?" I asked. I realized then that I probably should have pretended to be a seer - after all, Trelawney knew all kinds of things that took place other times. I should have gone with that. Would it be too late to try now?

I scoffed at myself. It was far too late. I ought to have started at once if I'd wanted to go with such a story. Now, having already revealed a version of the truth, any such attempted deception would be completely transparent.

Harry seemed calmer now. "Very well, Raven. I will request access to the Hall of Prophecy." He stood and looked down at me, very serious. "But only if you come as well."

"Of course," I said, like the utter fool that I am. "I wouldn't miss it."


End file.
